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“Is this Mortvik Bay?” murmured the clean-shaven Masilidi, addressing no one in particular among his companions. Nidadad, with her full lips, replied: “How should we know, O Ghost of the Lily?” She pressed her shoulder against his beneath the lavish, dense hazel tree, her gaze—like that of the others—fixed on the branching waterways of the sea.
A copious rain had spread its whims and moods across the landscape. The six companions drew closer together within the circle sheltered by hazel boughs, which somewhat tempered the water’s turbulence. The massive Ramosirasmo, with his aquiline nose, spoke: “If this were Mortvik Bay, we would have come across fishermen.”
“Perhaps they have left, O Rice-Flour-Scented Ramosirasmo,” said Dahnalida, whose very fair eyelashes were visible through the slits of her mask. “I see no trace of resident or passerby. This place has neither been inhabited nor abandoned. It is a place—a still mind, a place untested by betrayal,” said Jimaterk, the long-nosed. He removed his black leather cap—shaped like half an egg—from his head and walked toward the stretch of water: “I shall wade into the Mortvik Sea.”
“Where to, O Perplexer of Maple Trees?” asked the bald, bushy-bearded Girmohali. Jimaterk replied: “To the Gate of Drowning. I shall open it.” The others laughed. They exchanged glances that seemed somehow off-balance. Masilidi called out to him: “Since when, O Perplexer of Maple Trees, have you etched that raised tattoo upon the tablet of your imagination?” Gimaterk turned to him, wading through the water in his clothes: “Which tattoo do you mean? I have etched many tattoos onto a phantom slate, O Ghost of the Lily. On our journey to the Lost Bay of Mortvik, I shall drive the Bay of Mortvik back to its marine pen.”
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